


Highlands Away

by septmars



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Exile, F/M, Lyanna Stark Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 07:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septmars/pseuds/septmars
Summary: It was like a song. The long-lost prince returned from exile, and met a rosy maiden.





	Highlands Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Mother wept when she saw the shores of White Harbour. She had come home, at last, after sixteen years in a strange land. For Jon, it felt like the opposite. He was being ripped from his home and sent to a strange land.

No matter how many stories his Mother told him, Westeros _was_ a strange land. The North even more so. Jon grew up underneath the sunny skies of Myr in a port pub amongst sun-kissed sailors. The solemn pale men of his Mother’s homeland was a stranger to him, and so was its hard soil.

But Jon’s uncles were waiting in the harbour to welcome them and Mother ran to them as if she was a young girl and not a woman of two and thirty. She sobbed as they hugged her. Jon never saw her so happy—and so wretched. So he set aside his feelings and steeled himself. _For Mother_.

Jon’s uncles looked like him, if he was twenty years older. Both of them were very similar in height and appearances, the only significant difference being that Benjen Stark, his youngest uncle, had a beard and was dressed in all black. When they finally broke apart from their sister, they both regarded Jon with the same cool grey eyes he saw every day in the looking-glass.

“Jon,” Lord Eddard Stark said. He was his Mother’s second-oldest uncle, Jon remembered, and had to take up the family seat when his older brother died demanding Mother’s release. He was the one who rescued Mother and him from the tower, and sent them away to Myr. “You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you.”

“It is great to finally meet you, Uncle.” Jon bowed to him clumsily, half-remembering Mother’s lessons on etiquette.

Eddard Stark smiled. “And you, Jon. We’ve been waiting for you for a long time. Welcome home.”

Eddard Stark patted him on the shoulder. Despite the cold, Jon felt warm. Perhaps he would be able to make a home here, after all.

—

Sansa used to dream of a prince who would sweep her off her feet. That dream was unceremoniously crushed upon experiencing Joffrey’s cruelties first hand. It was only by a series of fortunate events and the skin of her teeth that Sansa and her family managed to escape King’s Landing. She ceased to believe in songs by then and abandoned hope for a prince who would cherish her forevermore.

It was ironic then that she was now waiting for a _literal_ prince to come.

Jon Targaryen sounded like something out of a song. Even his story of survival seemed like a ballad. When Eddard Stark went to the Tower of Joy and found his sister alive with a son, he knew they had to be sent far away from Robert Baratheon. So he and a band of loyalists had put them in a ship bound for Myr. Lyanna Stark bought a pub and raised her son in genteel poverty. No one would have guessed that she was the woman a realm fought over and that her son had royal blood.

With Joffrey behaving increasingly erratic and despotic, some have turned to Jon as a kind of salvation. Though the realm despised Aerys, they loved Rhaegar. He, at least, seemed to be free of the Targaryen madness and hope was high that his son was too.

Despite her best efforts, Sansa found herself looking forward to Jon’s arrival. She had imagined him to be pale, silver-haired, and violet-eyed. Just like what the books said about his sire.

She did not expect a dark haired, dark skinned boy with a Myrish accent.

—

Eddard Stark’s children were mostly replicas of his wife, all except for his youngest daughter. It made Jon a little self-conscious. He was aware of how his appearance made him stuck out like a sore thumb.

The eldest of the Stark children, Robb, immediately took a shine to him. He was roughly the same age as Jon, and was excited to have another companion. The only person his age in Winterfell, he said, was Theon, a ward of Eddard Stark.

The younger Stark sons were eager to see him, though they treated Jon as something akin to an exotic animal. The youngest Stark daughter, Arya, seemed to be the one Jon would get along the most. She was enthusiastic, but not in the way of Rickon and Bran, and asked him questions about swords.

The elder Stark daughter, Sansa, acted cooler with him than the others. She looked like a princess, all red hair and blue-eyed, and acted the most regal. Arya said she used to be betrothed to the King, before the engagement was ceremoniously broken when he tried to frame Eddard Stark for treason.

“He treated her badly,” said Arya, frowning. “He treated everyone badly, actually. But for Sansa it was harder, since she seemed to actually love him.”

Jon looked at Sansa, ruminating at this newly-revealed fact. She reminded him of an old Myrish song. _I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair…_

—

Sansa didn’t see much of Jon for the following weeks. He was too busy meeting the various lords and ladies, talking about the rebellion, drumming up support. They were eager to see him, to size up this lost prince. The prince who had returned from exile to take back the throne and save them all from a bloodthirsty tyrant. His story sounded like something out of a song, and the nobles were adamant not to have a _Rains of Castamere_ in their hands.

She avoided most of the babble. Talks about rebellions made her think about Joffrey and she didn’t want to think about Joffrey. She even stopped going to the sept now, and began spending more time at the godswood. Every time she saw the Seven figurines, they took her back to the stained glass windows of the Great Sept of Baelor, the worst day of her life, and her father kneeling for mercy. She did not want to relive those days.

So to the godswood she went. Often, she would meet her Aunt Lyanna there. Though Myr was tolerant of all religions, Aunt Lyanna said, no weirwoods grew there and she thought she would never see a weirwood tree again. They talked about things that have changed and Old Nan’s stories. It was a rather thrilling experience, to be able to talk to the woman who had started it all. In another world, perhaps Lyanna would be like Sansa and do all the things a respectable lady must do, instead of running off with a married prince.

But today, she found Jon instead of his mother. He was standing in front of the heart tree, looking at it with a kind of cat’s curiosity. Seeing him amongst the weirwood, resplendent in his courtly cloth, unnerved Sansa. She was reminded of Joffrey, of the times he waited for her to exit the godswood with a cruel glint in his eyes.

The cold Northern air seemed to choke her. She took an involuntary step back.

Jon noticed her indiscretion and turned. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said, in his lush accent.

Hearing his voice brought Sansa back to her senses. She was not in the Red Keep godswood where no heart tree grew; she was in Winterfell. Standing under the red canopy of the ancient weirwood. Home.

“No, it’s alright, I’m the one who should leave,” said Sansa, regaining her calm. She turned on her heels to leave.

“Wait.”

Sansa stopped.

Jon twiddles his thumbs, looking nervous. He was actually quite handsome, now that she took a good look at him.

Wait, handsome?

“I was wondering if I can ask for your help in courtly manners,” Jon said, taking Sansa out of her reverie. “I am ashamed to say that I don’t have much training on that, and the past few weeks have been quite bewildering as a result. My mother has tried her best to help me, but she’s always been lax in her court training. Arya said you always have impeccable manners.”

“I don’t know why you are asking me, when there are others that can help you more.”

“Well, you seem kind. I…don’t want to disappoint anybody.” Jon smiled nervously. “I apologize for being presumptuous, but you seem to not be the kind of person who would fly in rage when I show my ignorance.”

Sansa was reminded of her first days in at King’s Landing. She had been nervous too, afraid of messing up and disappointing, always eager to please, always following. And now, look where that took her. She didn’t want to see him on the same path. He may be a stranger, but he was her cousin. Family. That meant something, didn’t it?

Perhaps that was why she said yes.

—

It was like a song. The lost prince came from exile to earn back his birth-right. The tyrant king was overthrown and the prince ruled justly. Then, his mettle was tested by invaders from the north. He prevailed, of course. They always do in the songs.

It was like a song. The lost prince returned, met a rosy maiden, and fell in love. There were obstacles, of course. A disapproving family, a jealous prince, court politics. Unlike the heroes, the lovers did not always prevail in the songs, but they did; for theirs was the song of ice and fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Joanna Newsom's song "Waltz of the 101st Lightborne"


End file.
